Chapter IX

Maraharishi was having a pleasant dream; high above the mountains of Katmandu he soared, navigating the wispy islands of mist, straddling a warm pork sausage. Far off in the distance, a hollow voice summoned him, chanting his name quietly. Shortly, a fierce wind began to stir as Maraharishi and his flying kanish were wisked through the clouds, falling rapidly. As he plummeted toward the earth, Maraharishi watched helplessly as the cave collided with him, giving him a big hickey. "Holy Shiva," he exclaimed as he awoke, a glowing green vacuum cleaner hose sucking at his cheek. The suction ceased succinctly and the vacuum cleaner, Gyro, apologized, "Forgive me, but you are difficult to awaken."

The startled Indian, who, incidentally, had only recently moved to Napal, accepted the apology and asked what was so important. "While you slept," the astral appliance replied, "I was checking up on our roach problem. The Earth is once again in great danger."

Maraharishi rubbed his left cheek as Gyro continued. "I intercepted a transmission from the I.R.S. Plague to an Imperial Roach Starbase in the Lacrepémjüs system. It seems that the base is dispatching a cruiser equipped with state-of-the-art alternation ion field energy conduits!"

Maraharishi’s face remained blank.

"Jumper cables," explained the vacuum cleaner.

Not far away, the Imperial cruiser, I.R.S. Audit sped toward a mostly unsuspecting Earth.

Raindrop lay completely still; the last thing she remembered was a blinding flash of light but now she was naked, face down on a cold iron fire escape staring down at a naked eunuch who seemed to be mesmerized by a tiny Patrick Stewart who kept repeating the cryptic words, "Pontiac, we build excitement," in a high-pitched, annoying voice.

Raindrop heard herself shriek as the rusted fire-escape gave way, sending her crashing down on the head of the unwary stranger who smelled of cream cheese. R.J. scrambled to her feet, unhurt, demurely covering as much of her body as possible. Shivering with cold and fear, she surveyed the situation. The naked eunuch lay splayed out in the middle of the alleyway. A muffled, high-pitched voice emanated from below the stranger’s stunned body where a matchbox car had been. Theodore Lind sat up, much to the relief of Patrick Stewart, and straightened his hair. Dizzily gaining his feet, he made his way to a nearby dumpster and extracted a suitcase of brown leather. Theodore opened the suitcase and tossed a pair of large dungarees and a pancho to Raindrop. Then he quickly slipped into a tight, black cotton corset and mini-skirt. Just then, a black Mercedes-Benz rolled into the alleyway. Suddenly, Raindrop understood everything; she giggled.

Far above them, a small, furry man aimed a large, not so furry weapon in their direction. He, too, giggled. Gently he squeezed the trigger.

"Please change," Clyde Millers whimpered between chattering teeth, "Change now you bastard!"

Clyde crouched at the corner of 3rd and Trout streets, shivering and staring expectantly at the red, illuminated "Don’t Walk" signal. For exactly 264 seconds he had been waiting here. On his left stood a slightly open package containing Bert’s glowing, dismembered green arm; on his right, a leafy, green feline entity with a nine imprinted on its forehead yawned uninterestedly; to his rear, two drunken bums were busy prostrating themselves in worship to Clyde. In any normal town, Clyde’s appearance would have drawn attention; in Greenwich Village, it attracted disciples.

Finally, the light changed and Clyde sprinted across the street, his two heads of unnatural stature flopping wildly. Tibby trotted behind, carrying the package in his kitty maw. After a few blocks, Clyde stopped to catch his breath in an alleyway.

"Are we close?" asked Clyde hopefully.

Tibby glanced down at the arm and determined that it was now phasing in and out of reality at exactly 982 cycles per second. "Very close, now," the cat replied. "The Three of Great Hair are just around that corner."

Clyde began trotting lazily to the next alleyway. As he turned the corner, all Hell broke loose...

If you want Clyde to proceed into the alleyway, turn to pg. 34.

If you want Tibby to give up the quest and open a bar in Greenwich Village, turn to pg. 84.

If you want Clyde to go back to the street corner and lead his drunken followers to the promised land, turn to page 1.

If you want to kick Dave’s ass for taking so long with the chapter, fuck off!